


shall I compare thee to a winter’s day

by rayfelle



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, post episode 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:23:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9132127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayfelle/pseuds/rayfelle
Summary: There are big, lazy drops of rain falling along the same old cobblestone roads when the two of them once again step outside. Yurio breathes a content purr of a sound and glances at Yuuri from the corner of his eye. “Don’t try so hard to understand that idiot. He’s not that deep.”





	

_If Viktor were a cold Russian winter_ \--- Yuuri stops that thought there, as if it had burned him like hot coal. His chest rises once more in a breath taken. _If Viktor were a gentle winter, with sharp winds and slippery paths_ \---

No, that wasn’t quite right either. Because Viktor is more than winter and snow, more than the cutting elegance and careless flick of a smile that is not meant to _inspire_ , but does so anyway. At least, it had inspired Yuuri so long ago, when he and Yuuko could barely stand on the hard and unforgiving ice.

It’s dark and silent in the lush St. Petersburg apartment. These floors are not ones Yuuri’s feet as used to, yet. These sounds of muffled Russian flowing through the windows are unfamiliar and not as warm as when… Well, as when the syllables fall from Viktor’s lips like syrup.

Maybe Yuuri was, indeed, a romantic poet.

Or maybe he was just madly in love with a man that rekindled Yuuri’s stuttering fire of adoration towards the cold air and fresh scent of _cold_. Both, sometimes both were good enough. _More_ than just a simple good enough.

 _Viktor was the first spring after a cold and unforgiving winter_. Yuuri sets down the pen and lays his head on the blank, white pages. How could anyone ever begin to put the _energy_ that was Viktor into words? Some things just stayed impossible.

…

“Yuuri, my dear _solnyshko_ , you should be running, no? My fingers felt too nice along your sides yesterday.” Viktor wiggles his finger in Yuuri’s face. The man’s lips were pulled in a small smile, his blue eyes shining in the first rays of the morning sun.

At that moment, as so many times before, Yuuri thinks he is standing before an eternal being.

Viktor’s eyes are the sky and the ice, the vast blue of oceans washing along white sand beaches. There is warmth at the tips of those long, elegant fingers as they slide along the blush that spreads slowly along Yuuri’s cheeks.

“I-.. I, yes, I overslept. I’m so sorry.” Yuuri feels the softness of the blankets and silk of the sheets too vividly along his skin. There are creases pushed into his skin from where the edges of the bed wear had pressed into it while he slept. “Um, I will be going then. To get dressed.”

Viktor pats Yuuri’s cheek with a gentle wave of his wrist. It’s such a small and such an insignificant thing, but still manages to capture Yuuri’s attention. Like a drowning man zeroes onto a faint flicker of a boat against the horizon. “Up you go. I’ll scold you during skating practice later.”

It is a promise and it is a warning all wrapped in glittery ribbons and kindness. It’s still too poetic, in Yuuri’s head. No man should be able to find all these meanings and metaphors in everyday things that hold no deep significance.

…

The rink is buzzing with chatter and happy screams. Someone swears and a little girl quickly glides past where Yuuri stands, her blond hair twirling behind her and hands hiding a guilty smile underneath the soft gloves. Yakov hits the back of a young teenager’s head; the boy is guilty of tripping his partner on her way off the ice.

Viktor snaps his fingers in front of Yuuri’s nose. “No daydreaming. We don’t want any accidents and injuries, now do we?” The man’s blond hair gleams silver in the lamplight. A notebook stands open between them, on the railing, as Viktor goes over the step sequences and jumps. “Your stamina is great. You can do it, Yuuri.”

There is no maybe and no perhaps. These expectations still hammer a rusty nail somewhere between Yuuri’s ribs.

“I understand.” Yuuri replies affirmative instead of allowing himself a space to breathe and to choose the right decisions. Half his life is nothing but anxiety-filled refusal of things he is worth for. Breathing was thinking. “Should I do the whole thing or just focus on the jumps for now?”

There are too many people gliding across the ice. Lines upon lines of blades engraved on the surface of it. How many have both fallen and succeeded on it, Yuuri wonders. Will he be one of those that just don’t make it after all, even when there is Viktor’s gaze that follows and supports? Victor was the spark to his gunpowder. But after it has burned, nothing gets left behind.

Once more Viktor’s fingers snap in front of Yuuri, warm palms settle around his forearm. “ _Shush_ , my sweet Yuuri. Turn that mind of yours off. Now is not the time.”

And then it’s all gone, in one gust of a breath.

…

After practice Yurio pulls Yuuri along, into the glittering and, somehow, lonely St. Petersburg heart. The teenager lives on a jumping staccato, where each action is razor sharp and cuts with the precision of a knife. There is an untamed wildness about the boy who has the face of a prince and a kindness so deep right under it.

 _Yuri is summer rain, autumn rainstorm and a spring typhoon_ , Yuuri thinks to himself and swears to put these revelations onto paper once he can. It is easier to put a name to this child that is so open and so awkward with affection _now_.

“You fucking _suck_!” Yurio kicks at the puddles as they near a small diner on the corner of a deserted road. “That asshole Viktor thinks you’re _homesick_ or some crap, when you are obviously not. Stop making my goddamn life _hard_.”

“Sorry. I really don’t mean to.” Yuuri slides his fingers along the back of his neck, trips on the hidden traps laid along the cobblestone. Sometimes this city seems more dangerous than simply lonely. “Thank you for worrying about me.”

Yurio clicks his tongue and says nothing. They sit in the warmth of the diner, steaming bowl of solyanka sitting in front of Yuri and freshly made pelmeni for Yuuri. They share one glass of kvass and another of kefir, as Yuuri had not tried either yet. It’s a curious combination of tastes and experiences as it mixes with the calm way Yurio speaks about his country.

There are big, lazy drops of rain falling along the same old cobblestone roads when the two of them once again step outside. Yurio breathes a content purr of a sound and glances at Yuuri from the corner of his eye. “Don’t try so hard to understand that idiot. He’s not that deep.”

…

 _That life had been a Sahara with no living organism and only a few healthy thoughts_. Once again Yuuri’s hand and pen stop during a fluid motion that smears the ink all over the white page. The words don’t feel correct. There is something missing, something wrong.

It has been days since Yuuri had discovered just a little more about Russia together with Yurio. Another little and warm spot in the middle of St. Petersburg’s spring chill. The country that was equal parts terrifying and dangerous as it was welcoming and warm. It’s a puzzle with missing pieces, this life that Yuuri leads now.

He still doesn’t have the courage to talk with Viktor.

The scratch of the pen starts up again, unsure and hesitating over the printed lines. _The Katsuki Yuuri that existed in Detroit and during the Sochi, where has he gone—_ He stills again and raises his eyes towards the grey of the ceiling. There are shadows playing there, in the corners. Yuuri can make out a part of himself, in that dark shimmer.

He wonders, not for the first time, if the golden ring that sits snug around his ring finger is just a step forward. Or maybe it is a fast-forward button, which had made _all of everything_ run by Yuuri’s eyes too fast to understand. Maybe he has been left behind, still standing in Sochi, surrounded by his defeat and phoenix fire of another’s victory.

Thinking was bad. Remembering more so, at times.

A dog howls at the raising moon somewhere deep within the city. Yuuri feels like joining, if only to throw his thoughts away and out the window.

…

Viktor’s breath tickles the skin behind Yuuri’s ear. They sit pressed close to each other, Viktor’s long legs trapping Yuuri in his lap. The television is left on and a young Alla Pugacheva is singing about a million roses that can be seen from a window. It’s fitting.

“Will my _ponchik_ finally tell me what is on his mind lately, I wonder. Even little Yurio has been worried.” Viktor hums along the song, rocking the both of them to the rhythm. It’s a gentle movement – left, right, left, right. Like treetops that sway on their own.

Yuuri is used to the nicknames that Viktor awards him with. There are sweethearts and little suns scattered amongst different kinds of pastries and animals, all these names that make Yuuri blush and feel like summer has settled in the pit of his stomach.

As his lips dip into a small smile, Yuuri leans back against Viktor’s chest. “It’s nothing. I was just trying to, well, write some things out and then got a bit melancholy over some of the bits. I’m really, really fine.” It is neither a lie, nor the truth. It is something in the middle, something safe.

Kirkorov takes Pugacheva’s place on the television and the mood changes drastically. At least there, on the screen where old and new music mixed so effortlessly. Viktor taps his fingers against Yuuri’s thigh, the movement following a score of their own. The warmth that seeps though Yuuri’s sweatpants buries itself deep into his muscles.

“Okay. But Yuuri, when you feel sad you better come to me so we can cuddle it away. Or take Yurio out for a dance.” The way Viktor says Yuuri’s name, the way he lengthens the vowels in a sound so loving and deep – it is music and poetry on its own.

…

Yuuri glides across the ice. He’s alone here, in the quiet and stillness of the rink. An Axel, a Salchow, a toe loop. Shards of ice fly as he lands, there are grooves carved by the blades of his skates left behind. There is no program that Yuuri follows as he moves. There is only he and the moves that help his body to settle down.

A figure eight draws itself, his skates slide and catch along small bumps. Another Axel and someone claps their hands. Yuuri holds onto the rink railing as his balance suffers the backlash of a surprise not awaited.

Viktor stands atop the seats, up above where the crowds usually sit and scream their support for those performing their hearts out. The shadows cut sharp angles on the man’s body; light softens what it can reach. Like a judge and a god Viktor stands there. He is silent and watchful, with eyes that glint with something _more_ and body relaxed. A beacon and a marker of something bigger.

 _If Viktor was a winter’s day…_ Yuuri doesn’t know what should follow anymore. There are too many and too little words in all the languages that he knows. Nothing seems to fit and nothing seems right. He can imagine a tundra with a lone wolf ruling over it, a forest wrapped in frost, a lake frozen over. _…he would be the most beautiful and deadly kind_.

“Good form.” Viktor climbs down the steps and leans against the railing. “That loop was a bit wobbly; we might need to work on it.” There might be questions and there might be demands, but none come forward. Like clockwork these habits of each other settle in their lives.

Yuuri skates closer, his eyes mist and blur the images before him. It’s a lonely world, where the small and important things escape his notice so easily. “Sorry. I finished my…, the thing I was writing. Somehow it felt weird and I needed to work it out.”

A hand lands on Yuuri’s head and musses up his sweaty hair. It’s getting long; there is an itch at the back of Yuuri’s neck that asks for a haircut. Viktor smile is indulgent, like one would look at a lost child. “I’m glad you got over it at last. Now, let’s go home, Makkachin misses you and _I_ want to cuddle.”

…

Yurio narrows his eyes towards Yuuri in a way that searches instead of putting forth a challenge. They were not in Sochi anymore, where lacking experience and words too awkward on their tongues was something to be afraid of.

Yuuri knows better. Yurio has _learned_ to be better.

“Finally got over your stupidity, huh?” Yurio taps his heel against the smooth linoleum laid upon the entrance of their skating rink. Little kids squeak past them, the soles of their sneakers harsh against the aged flooring. “It was about damn time.”

Yuuri laughs, a little shy and mostly relieved. He waves to a group of little girls that smile shyly his way. “Yeah. Sorry I worried you, Yurio. I just started thinking too much, probably. Like it usually happens.” One of those girls runs up to him and hands over a bag of sweets, her smile is wide and sunny.

Yurio rolls his eyes and kicks the backs of Yuuri’s legs. “ _God_ , you’re stupid.” There is no bite to the words, no spite or anger. Just something soft and comfortable. A satisfied smile then curls the boy’s lips so beautifully. “Let’s go, katsudon. I’ll kick your ass on the ice again.”

Russia had seemed so far away, once. But now it feels like a home to Yuuri. Streets he slowly starts to remember, the sharpness of the Cyrillic alphabet in every corner and sound, the cold that doesn’t seem as biting as it once had been.

Yuuri is home, with Viktor. And summer peeks around the edge of a new day.


End file.
